Tag: Life Stories

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Wisdom by Ray S.

In the 17th summer the rite of passage was upon me, slowly moving like a little boat with no oars – moving nevertheless.

We had only slept together once, without too much innovation, but I was certain I was in love. Then came the war and it wasn’t until after it that we could catch up about what life had exposed us to and what were we going to do with all of this newly acquired knowledge and especially the opportunities extended to us by our Uncle.

With little persuasion and renewed ardor I learned there was land between the great lakes and California, where the country dropped off into the ocean. Somewhere in the middle of the vast unknown a place with the romantic name of Colorado Springs floated at the foot of a mountain – Colorado what was that? He said, “follow me”.

We were roommates that 1st year of the higher education adventure and well on our way in search of wisdom.

My appointed advisor couldn’t go wrong after perusing my earlier academics with the direction to head for the nearby art center. It seemed so easy, like summer camp where all you did was have fun with paints and stuff. The Book learning on the other side of campus was the work.

Life drawing, introduction to medias, oil painting (acrylics hadn’t come on the scene yet). Design and advanced courses in practical arts. Interspersed with too much art history, a brief dalliance with a lovely older curator – a friendship that lasted long after graduation time.

Years later my greater understanding of all of that acquired wisdom came to the surface. Not just the doing of learning – I don’t mean to discount that reality, but the overview that comes from the passage of time and recognizing the wonder of the many experiences I had been exposed to. Seems to me that one can be so involved in the actual doing at the time that you aren’t aware of what is really happening to you. It all is taken for granted.

Those basic art classes were taught by none other than a successful all around artist & sculptor. The head of the school and art center was a world-renowned artist. An esteemed lithographer and teacher opened a door for me on a medium I had never even thought about; much less one I could acquire a working and creative knowledge of. I don’t think I was truly aware of the discovery and wonders of what he potentially guided me through until years later.

All of these men were established practicing artisans, but they had to have day jobs too. Most important they were our mentors.

Several years past, I came across the death notice of my artist/sculptor oil painting teacher. The listing of his accomplishments and works was remarkable to say the least. His legacy to the art world and society is acknowledged and respected.

Thumbing through at art dealer’s selection of prints and drawings one sunny spring morning I came across 2 small pages from an artist’s sketchbook. I was struck by the sureness and economy of line in the drawings. Not unlike those of Picasso. Nude couples in repose, thought provoking but not quite prurient. To my surprise and pleasure I discovered they were 2 original line drawings of my one time oil painting teacher. The long stored away memories of those student times flooded my thoughts – this time not of just the actual mechanics or doing them, but the afterglow, if you will, of all of the collateral WISDOM that resulted from that chapter in my book of life. Acquisition struck and followed.

The prints are at the framing studio now.

© June, 2014

About the Author

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When I Decided to Become a Nurse by Pat Gourley

I moved to Denver in December of 1972. One memory of our initial arrival in Denver has stuck with me for all of these years and I think of it every winter. I grew up in the Snow Belt of northwest Indiana and then at the age of 16 my family moved up north of Chicago so I was quite familiar with snowy winters. A scene we witnessed one snowing morning in Denver that December was a public works truck driving down the middle of Colfax avenue with two guys in the back shoveling I assumed a salt mixture out of the back of the truck onto the street. This seemed a very strange and funny way to address snow on the streets to us and we wondered if the city had any snowplows. This did not prove to be a deal breaker however and several of us close friends moved here anyway.

My first job was in the food service department at Craig Rehab Hospital in Englewood. That only lasted about six months and then I was soon employed, in the summer of 1973, on the inpatient psychiatric ward at what was then called Denver General Hospital. We were living at the time on Elati Street just behind the new Denver General Hospital building. I was hired as a Hospital Attendant, a bit of a fancier name for ‘Orderly’ I guess. All of the attendants on the unit were male and, except for me, conscientious objectors to the Vietnam War doing their community service. We were all male I assume to provide muscle to back up the all female R.N. staff. Despite being hired as “muscle” I distinctly remember three instances of getting my lights punched out by belligerent patients, one episode involving the smashing of a glass IV bottle over my head. IV bottles did not become plastic until years later.

The lasting impact of that job was not however a fist coming my way but came from the several great women I worked with. The ones who made the most lasting impression on me were R.N.’s. All were very dynamic women and my eventual philosophy of nursing was greatly shaped by these dynamic women. Several of these nurses were actually involved in a lawsuit in the early 1970’s asking that women get equal pay for equal work. They unfortunately lost that suit with the Judge actually saying in his decision that to give women equal pay for equal work would be much to disruptive to the very fabric of society.

I went from inpatient psychiatry after two years to a street alcohol detox unit down at 17th and Blake, years before it became the high-end LoDo neighborhood it is today. This street facility was pre-Denver Cares. We had ten detox beds and allowed a three-day stay to get sober with a more extended rehab-option of one month I think in our upstairs dorm. Most of the guys would leave for day labor and I suspect most often a little nip of this or that. Those who stayed behind were often subjected to lectures I pulled together on the health effects of too much alcohol with tobacco still getting a free ride back then.

This was frontier medicine at its best. No air conditioning, poor ventilation and only ten beds that really only filled up when the weather was bad. We usually did not call an ambulance until the third withdrawal seizure. Oh and we were right next-door to a liquor store. In the winter the predominately men on the streets were always hustling us for change to be able to buy a “wine-blanket” to make it through the night.

I converted my TB test in those days and ended up on meds for about a year. Relax; any cough today is not TB but just phlegm. This again was probably related to the lousy ventilation in the place. The back dorm room did have a window but to keep that open was to invite folks to crawl in or out. Also the window looked out on a vacant lot often the scene of raucous parties with small fires and occasionally the roasting of a stray dog over the fire for a late night meal.

All the guys we took in had to be at least a few hours out from their last drink. We started with stripping off their most often very funky clothes and getting them to shower with Kwell lotion and then into hospital garb. The issuing of hospital pajamas often, but not always, slowed down the urge to escape after sobering up and the shakes started to set in. The relatively few women, on what was then called skid row, would be taken to the hospital for detox.

The nurse I worked with on the evening shift, 1500-2300, was an old army nurse who drove up from Colorado Springs named Ruth. She sat at the desk facing the street with a bench on its side blocking the door to keep rowdy drunks out often trying to bum one of the endless cigarettes she chained smoked on the job – this was 1975 remember. One particularly warm summer night we had a drive by shooting. The bullet missed Ruth and the rest of us inside but I can still hear her yelling to hit the deck because of the incoming fire. The gunfire was most certainly meant for someone on the street and we were just unfortunately in the way of someone who was obviously a lousy shot.

These were also my peak coming out years and I was in no mood to take shit off straight assholes but guys still drunk did call me a fairy on more than one occasion. Our clients were often very polite and non-threatening when sober. Sweet guys lots of them really. So, despite the homophobia, having to dispose of lice infested smelly clothing, the positive TB test, getting my lights punched out on occasion, helping still often drunk men shower (nothing fun about that really!), Ruth’s endless chain smoking, another older male attendant who said he preferred taking a good shit any day to sex, and the crappy pay for nurses I decided to throw caution to the wind and enrolled in the University of Colorado School of Nursing in 1976. It only took two years to get my bachelor’s degree since I had already accumulated well over 120 hours of semester credit at the University of Illinois much of it in the sciences. No degree though to show for it, I simply could not fit that in with antiwar demonstrations, the support of Caesar Chavez’s United Farm Workers union, the occasion anti-war riot and endless picketing and leafleting. Oh and of course a fair amount of sex, drugs and rock and roll didn’t help either.

So with much encouragement from the several very strong female R.N.’s in my life I decided to become a nurse in the spring of 1976 and the rest is history. To this day I can be found on many a Tuesday or Thursday working a 12 hour shift in a local Urgent Care Unit with I might add a bunch of great nurses mostly still women.

© March 2014  

About the Author

I was born in La Porte, Indiana in 1949, raised on a farm and schooled by Holy Cross nuns. The bulk of my adult life, some 40 plus years, was spent in Denver, Colorado as a nurse, gardener and gay/AIDS activist. I have currently returned to Denver after an extended sabbatical in San Francisco, California.

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Tender Loving Care by Gillian

I came out to the world in the early eighties; the early nineteen-eighties, that is, not my early eighties. I was around forty. I came roaring out of the closet in a letter printed in the Boulder Camera newspaper, as I lived in Lyons at the time, and it felt great.

Beyond words great. 
I was free, I was me – the me I was born to be. 
Free at last.
OK.
Now what?
I didn’t have to hide the real me any longer. Great. But what did that do for me? Yeah yeah it did feel wonderful, but it had to lead somewhere. Feeling free is terrific but I needed action. But what action? I hadn’t a clue. I knew what I wanted but I hadn’t a single solid idea of how to go about finding it. A few other lesbians made themselves known to me at work after I came out, but they were in long-term relationships and had little to suggest by way of meeting others. All they had to offer was The Three Sisters bar in Denver, or start playing softball, neither of which appealed to me. I have, as most of you know, no aversion to bars and alcohol, but was quite incapable of conjuring up in my imagination any vision of what a lesbian bar, or its clientele, would really be like. How was I expected to dress and act? Going to this place alone offered rather a scary prospect.
Almost as scary as taking up softball!
At that time, gay and lesbian gatherings and organizations often kept pretty well below the mainstream radar and were not easy to find. I looked in the Boulder paper and found very little. But then, one Sunday, I spotted a small ad. The following weekend was the monthly meeting of a group called TLC – standing not for Tender Loving Care, as I had supposed, but for The Lesbian Connection. This group proclaimed its purpose as offering an alternative lesbian gathering for those outside of the college community. At each meeting there was a speaker and a following discussion. It all sounded rather staid and not in the least bit scary. It was held in a church community room for God’s sake!
The next Saturday I turned up at my first TLC meeting, and in the first ten minutes I knew I had found a home. There were more lesbians there than I knew existed in the entire country, and it seemed to me that every single one of them was warm, and witty, and wonderful. Of course they were not. They were just like any other group of people; some were indeed warm, some witty, some wonderful, but others were boring, aloof, or just plain obnoxious. But I loved that group of women who folded me into their arms and their lives and propelled me into a lesbian social whirl I so craved. They eased my entry into this new world; they welcomed and supported me in my new life. Some became firm friends for life. As far as I was concerned, the initials TLC certainly did stand for Tender Loving Care. That was what I found there, anyway.
The group continued for several years, eventually dying a natural death as such organizations do.
These days Betsy and I again gather with a lesbian group which meets monthly, but this one is OLOC, or Old Lesbians Organizing for Change. We meet at different places throughout northern Colorado, from Denver to Estes Park to Loveland, and all points in between. This group, as the name implies, has somewhat loftier aims perhaps than the old Lesbian Connection, but many of the same women are there, and a similar number of women attend the meetings. 
The social time and energy we once used in dancing and parties and wild weekends, we now tend to expend in support of old friends in care facilities, and hospitals, or struggling to stay independent at home. But the laughter and the camaraderie remain, as does the tender loving care.
These wonderful groups, past and present, played, and still play a huge part in my GLBT existence. But the icing on that particular cake is, now, this very special Storytelling group.
I find, within it, that same humor, the same sharing and caring and support, the same laughter and tears, as in TLC and OLOC. I consider myself incredibly blessed to have been welcomed into such groups throughout my lesbian life; groups which, whatever the name, could all most appropriately have been called Tender Loving Care.

© 19 April 2014

About
the Author

I was born and raised in England. After graduation from college there, I moved to the U.S. and, having discovered Colorado, never left. I have lived in the Denver-Boulder area since 1965, working for 30 years at IBM. I married, raised four stepchildren, then got divorced after finally, in my forties, accepting myself as a lesbian. I have now been with my wonderful partner Betsy for 25 years.

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Hospitality by Will Stanton

When I was starting college back in the LGBT “Dark Ages,” society as a whole often was not so accepting or understanding about homosexuality as it appears to be now- days. This was especially true in small towns such as mine. Perhaps most devastating was the situation of parents not accepting or supporting their own children’s orientation or the fact that they had developed same-gender relationships. Parents who discovered that their sons or daughters brought home “special friends” often lacked kindness and hospitality, to say the least. Sometimes, confrontations could leave lasting scars. On the other hand, if young people were lucky and parents were better informed and more empathetic, parents might be surprisingly understanding and supportive.

At the time when I was only beginning to understand anything about the world of LGBT, a met a young couple of gay guys whose story was so special that I never have forgotten it. I attended an invitation-only party in Cincinnati. The guests were all young guys, several of them from the nearby university. One very affectionate couple drew everyone’s attention throughout the evening, partly because they were so stunningly good looking. I was not the only person frequently glancing at them but, at the same time, trying not to stare. We were curious about them also because they appeared to be unusually young for college students. The somewhat taller of the two, David, was an intelligent and self-assured brunette; whereas Peter, the more boyish partner with gold-blond hair, seem to me to more closely resemble an angel than a mere mortal. They obviously were very much in love, although they did not make an unseemly show of it.
Of course, those at the party who did not know the couple were very curious about who they were and how they had become partners. Part way through the evening, some more assertive person simply asked them to tell about themselves. So, with each partner contributing to the answer, they told us their story. The details were so interesting that I never have forgotten them.
My first surprise was when David said that he had just turned seventeen, somewhat younger than many college freshmen; however, it was his friend Peter who surprised me even more when he revealed that he was only fifteen and starting college. Oh well, it must be nice to be so intelligent as well as so good looking, all at the same time.
It turns out, however, that Peter’s early life had not been so pleasant. He was an only child of two upper-middle-class, professional parents from New York whose thinking and attitudes were extremely lacking in understanding, empathy, and perhaps even love. Apparently, they always had suspected that Peter was, shall we say, “different;” and they certainly did not approve. For several years, Peter had felt oppressed and unloved. The parent’s unthinking, harsh treatment left Peter continually feeling sad and lonely. Peter said that they told him that it was just as well that he was leaving home so that they would not be reminded each day of how disappointed they were in him, this despite that fact that he was a straight-A student and never had been in trouble. How could any parent say such a thing? No wonder he was unhappy.
David, too, was an only child. In his case, however, he appeared to be quite happy and well grounded. His parents apparently had been very loving and caring.
As fate would have it, the two of them were assigned to the same dormitory double-room, perhaps because both of them were younger than many of the other freshmen. When the two of them first met, David said that he immediately was very attracted to Peter, yet he discreetly made no overt indications of his feelings.
As the days went by, David observed Peter and saw that he was extremely studious, always attending to his school-work, frequenting the library for research, but he never went to any parties or social gatherings. Peter was polite and pleasant enough to David, but his shyness kept him from expressing himself very much. Also, Peter never spoke of his parents or his home-life. To David, Peter seemed to be in a constant state of sadness.
It was Thanksgiving break that gave David his first real clue that something was not well with Peter’s home-life. David was looking forward to returning home for Thanksgiving, although he had noted that his frequent phone conversations with his parents seemed to indicate that they were beginning to understand that he had not found a girlfriend but, instead, he often had spoken of his roommate Peter. When David asked Peter if he planned to be going home for Thanksgiving, Peter replied that he was not; he would be staying at school and just spend his time with his studies. David thought that this was somewhat strange but refrained from saying anything about it.
David drove to his parent’s home in Connecticut for Thanksgiving. He told us that, although he felt the accustomed love from his parents, they seemed to ask more questions than usual about his social life on campus and also what was his roommate Peter like. Then David’s mother surprised him by stating that, since Peter did not wish to go home for the holidays, he would have been welcome at their house as their guest.
Between Thanksgiving and Christmas break, David made a point of quietly and unobtrusively becoming even more caring and supportive of Peter. Peter said that he noticed and appreciated the kindness and affection. Over time, they became very close. As Peter gradually learned to trust David and his love, he found comfort and safety during the nights lying in David’s arms.
Then as it came time to prepare to depart for Christmas break, David received a phone-call from home. After some time, his mother inquired as to Peter’s plans for Christmas and suggested that he be their guest for the holidays. She insisted that David ask him. Peter silently shook his head, “No.” When David relayed that reply to his mother, she asked to speak directly to Peter. David turned the phone over the Peter, and she spoke to him with great warmth and caring. Peter agreed to come home with David.
David and Peter drove back to Connecticut for the holidays. David reassured Peter that he would like his parents and would feel very welcome in their home.
Peter said that, as they drove through the gates of the estate, he was surprised by how large David’s Georgian-style home was. It was easy for me to guess that David’s parents were very well off. I also guessed that, because of their position in society, they would be especially particular about David’s friends and whom he would be bringing into their home.
David and Peter said that both parents met them at the front door and invited them in. After they cleaned-up, they sat in the breakfast nook, had some refreshments, and chatted with each other. Peter said that David’s parents made him feel very relaxed and comfortable. After dinner, they sat in the living room and continued to talk throughout the evening.
Now here’s the most memorable part of their story. The most intriguing comment that Peter made to us about his experience with David’s parents was about the direction that their polite but persistent questioning took. They did not give the appearance that they were concerned by the fact that their son’s companion was a boy rather than a girl. Instead, they appeared to be thoroughly checking him out as a person. They wanted to make sure that he was well-bred and of good character. Apparently, Peter met with their approval.
Possibly even more surprising to Peter was, as the evening was closing, David’s mother stood up and announced that she would be retiring for the evening and then said to Peter, “We have a guest bedroom if you like, or you may wish to stay with David. You know best.” Those were the exact words that Peter told us, and I never have forgotten them. I’m sure that you have guessed right: Peter and David did sleep together during their visit.
I always have been impressed with David and Peter’s explanation of how the two of them found each other, how loving and understanding David’s parents were, and what wonderful hospitality they showed Peter. Although that was the one and only time that I ever saw David and Peter, I have not forgotten them. I would like to think that have been together ever since. Now, in a world that has far too much sadness, this is the kind of loving story-ending I like to hear.

© 2 July
2013



About the Author


I have had a life-long fascination with people and their life stories. I also realize that, although my own life has not brought me particular fame or fortune, I too have had some noteworthy experiences and, at times, unusual ones. Since I joined this Story Time group, I have derived pleasure and satisfaction participating in the group. I do put some thought and effort into my stories, and I hope that you find them interesting.

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“Do I Have Your …” by Ricky


There are so many words that could complete the title sentence. Some will be funny and some not funny but obnoxious and I will spare the reader any examples which one can easily create one’s-self. Many examples could be serious, romantic, or even insulting, but only one word will due for my written memory.

Last Tuesday, 3 September, my friend Donald and I were eating dinner at the Odyssey Italian restaurant in Denver. During the meal, I enjoyed listening to the Italian background music. While waiting for the server to finish clearing the table of our used dishes, I noticed that the song playing in the background was no longer Italian but was being sung in French. In spite of the language, it sounded familiar and mentioned that to Donald. Suddenly, recognition hit with emotional force catching me totally unprepared and I quietly began to sob pushing my napkin into my mouth to stifle the noise until the song finished. The song was being sung in French with great emotion and with an orchestra accompanying. The combination of the beautiful music and tenor voice just overwhelmed me because it was OUR SONG and she has been gone 12-years next Sunday, September 15th. Until that night, I have never felt the grief of her passing and I was finally able to release some of that pent-up sorrow.

So for me, the only word that can complete the title sentence is “love” as in “Do I Have Your Love.”

Our song is the July 17th, 1965 version by the Righteous Brothers of Unchained Melody.

Unchained Melody
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zrK5u5W8afc
Oh my love my darling
I’ve hungered for your touch
A long lonely time
And time goes by so slowly
And time can do so much
Are you still mine
I need your love
I need your love
God speed your love to me

Lonely rivers flow to the sea to the sea
To the open arms of the sea
Lonely rivers sigh wait for me wait for me
I’ll be coming home wait for me

Oh my love my darling
I’ve hungered, hungered for your touch
A long lonely time
And time goes by so slowly
And time can do so much
Are you still mine
I need your love
I need your love
God speed your love to me

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Unchained_Melody
Deb & Ricky – BYU Military Ball
© 9 September 2013

About
the Author

I was born in June of 1948 in Los Angeles, living first in Lawndale and then in Redondo Beach. Just prior to turning 8 years old in 1956, I began living with my grandparents on their farm in Isanti County, Minnesota for two years during which time my parents divorced.

When united with my mother and stepfather two years later in 1958, I lived first at Emerald Bay and then at South Lake Tahoe, California, graduating from South Tahoe High School in 1966. After three tours of duty with the Air Force, I moved to Denver, Colorado where I lived with my wife and four children until her passing away from complications of breast cancer four days after the 9-11 terrorist attack.

I came out as a gay man in the summer of 2010. I find writing these memories to be therapeutic.

My story blog is TheTahoeBoy.Blogspot.com

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Little Things Mean a Lot by Phillip Hoyle

My granddaughter named ‘Little’ stands tall and makes herself known through dance, poetry, music, painting, academics, personality, and stature. When she was born I was amazed that anyone would name their child Little but then recalled the first child in that family had names, Samuel Evan Isaac Grove Hoyle, his moniker a virtual family history. The second child held the unmatched name Kalo Bushy Hoyle, unusual enough to suggest to one grandmother that it could have been chemically induced. So, why not Little Rosamond Hoyle? But Little was a large child. As she grew tall I envisioned hearing the local Mid-Missouri sports broadcaster during a high school basketball game saying, “And down court at six-foot-two comes Little Hoyle for yet another layup.” But she doesn’t play basketball. She’s a ballerina, a lifeguard, and a singer, and she is studying molecular biology. Perhaps she will grow to see how little things really mean a lot, the tiniest building blocks supporting a huge structure or a life.

Before my first child was born, long before there were thoughts of grandkids, large or small, my eldest sister and I began a correspondence. Our writing got underway when she and her husband moved out of the country. We wrote during the seventeen years they lived in South America. Lynn filled her notes with incidents in marketplaces, coffee bars, and jungle sandbars. (Her husband liked fishing in tropical rivers). She entertained with incidents related to having a cleaning woman who wanted to run their lives or meeting interesting folk like the shaman who floated in his canoe to the sandbar having heard of a woman—my sister—who wanted to meet the local holy man. Some of her short letters described side trips to Europe, books read, and projects undertaken. Once she enclosed the score of a samba she composed and another time told of a book she was helping translate into English. She regaled me with language complications, illnesses, and the continuing love affair with her spouse. In turn I told some incidents from my own rather pedestrian life to this always-interested sibling and friend. I was in my mid-twenties when our writing began, but the correspondence continues to this day, forty years of posts, and twenty-some years since she returned to the USA. We still write several times a year asking after one another’s lives and work, and sharing our interests in art and music, our involvement with unusual people, surprising books. Since we both follow the example of our mother who organized life into projects, we briefly detail our endless undertakings. The letters tend to be short and simple and full of love, but the long-enduring habit of sharing our lives in little notes has meant quite a lot to me. Enough of little things certainly means a lot.

A related little thing I appreciate is to open a letter and find enclosed a clipping of a report or pictures related to Native Americans. I first received such gifts when I was a teenager, articles sent by my grandmother Schmedemann. These days, two women still remember me in this way—my oldest sister who often sends me photos and articles of petroglyphs clipped from magazines and a local friend who brings me Indian-theme magazines and the occasional newspaper article. Just three months ago my friend gave me an article from the Littleton newspaper about some Arapahoe folk she knows and my sister sent two more interesting clippings picturing petroglyphs near her home in southern New Mexico. These little remembrances remind me that other people share my interests or simply are interested in me. Such little things mean a lot to me.

One more thing I want to mention. Twice across a crowded bar Michael, a young man who had registered an unusual interest in me, acknowledged my presence with a wave. His little attentions please me, stupidly thrill me. In fact, several younger men have recently asked me if I have a partner. Although I know they are probably asking this question out of their need for support, I still am moved by their choosing me to ask. Sometimes that pleasure seems on the edge of being crazy, but I enjoy it anyway. What keeps it from becoming too crazy is that I tell them I have a partner. The scene has repeated itself several times in my 65th year, and the latest wave across the room came only last week. Young men may need older men in their lives; older men certainly seem to want younger men in their lives. It may be just a little thing, but it means a lot. I prize the attentions of older men as well, so don’t forget to wave to me. It means a lot.

© 25 November 2012, Denver

About the Author

Phillip Hoyle lives in Denver and spends his time writing, painting, and socializing. In general he keeps busy with groups of writers and artists. Following thirty-two years in church work and fifteen in a therapeutic massage practice, he now focuses on creating beauty. He volunteers at The Center leading the SAGE program “Telling Your Story.”

He also blogs at artandmorebyphilhoyle.blogspot.com 

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Thanksgiving Dinner at the Brown House (A Meal to Remember) by Louis

When I was around 11 or 12 years old, I remember having Thanksgiving dinner with my parents and brothers in College Point. It was the mid-1950’s. Dwight Eisenhower was the President. I was a child happy with life, but my parents were very poor. I was too young to understand the inconveniences of poverty. We lived in a two-family house, and the upstairs tenant was a mother and daughter, Edna. They were poorer than we were. Edna got herself invited to our Thanksgiving and enjoyed setting up for the feast. 

My parents and especially my mother and grandmother wanted us to remember that once upon a time the Brown family and my maternal grandmother’s family, the Wilcoxes, in the 19th century were enormous affluent, influential families. On the wall were a picture of Abraham Lincoln in an oak oval frame and another of my great grandfather Captain Francis Leicester Brown of the Union Army in an oak oval frame. There was a petty point sampler that read “God bless the family in this household,” completed by me on my 15th birthday, May 10, 1819, Hannah Hopkins Hodge. 
In the 17th and 18th centuries my ancestors were prominent Puritan ministers. Even back then there were seemingly endless irreconcilable theological battles going on. On the other hand, my mother warned us that, though we should remember our ancestors, we should not be like her great aunt and become ancestor worshipers. It wasn’t wholesome either. 
The meal consisted of turkey, creamed onions, turnips, yams, rather traditional. What made it memorable was the chinaware: Limoges and Haviland plates and platters, a Wedgewood chocolate pitcher, Limoges demitasse espresso coffee cups that were works of art. Crystal goblets for the cider, a magnificent Damask table cloth and napkins. Ornate sterling silverware, Victorian style. Our attic was full of these remnants and memorabilia of an affluent comfortable 19th century past. Corny but beautiful oil paintings, more petit point samplers, lavish gowns with the finest French laces. More Victorian extravagance. Edna from a Catholic family really enjoyed our Thanksgiving dinners. For a day we Browns were again important people though the reference point was to another earlier century. For a day we were ancestor worshipers. 
Moral: How do poor people become whole happy well-adjusted people in a hostile social environment? I think poor people learning survival skills is probably more important than measuring one’s personal worth by the balance in our checking accounts and the influence we have in our communities. 
Catholic Edna for example is happy. She started out poor. She is still poor, but she has a good understanding of why certain politicians say what they say. She has a spiritual dimension to her belief system. She survives, she is well-adjusted. She also proves that Puritans and Catholics can get along just fine, thank you. 
Personally, I am still a “mal-content”. I am dissatisfied with church-sponsored homophobia, and the establishment’s irrational hostility to poor people, but I am on the mend. 
Our best teachers in the current environment are Occupy Wall Street and the Radical Faeries. I heard clearly what they have to say. They are convincing. We Americans should object to Wall Street giving orders to our elected leaders about how they should victimize the public for the sake of increasing profits for billionaires. The Radical Faeries in their presentations at the Lesbian and Gay Center in New York City pointed out the need for Lesgay people to develop a spiritual side to their personalities, to revere their sexual orientation rather than skulking around hating ourselves for the convenience of homophobes. We are an international “tribe”. Guess what, there are gay people in Morocco and Australia. 

In her personal search to find meaning in life outside of material success, Edna feels that she should boast about her family, her two children. In general, since Lesgay people are banished from traditional families, we have to devise another system that suits our communal interests.
What do we tell Lesbian and gay homeless teenagers who have been tossed out of their fundamentalist parents’ homes because of their sexual orientation? In other words, empower the out-groups. Amen.

© 31 March 2014 



About
the Author 


I was born in 1944, I lived most of my life in New York City, Queens County. I still commute there. I worked for many years as a Caseworker for New York City Human Resources Administration, dealing with mentally impaired clients, then as a social work Supervisor dealing with homeless PWA’s. I have an apartment in Wheat Ridge, CO. I retired in 2002. I have a few interesting stories to tell. My boyfriend Kevin lives in New York City. I graduated Queens College, CUNY, in 1967.

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Coming Out Spiritually by Lewis

I was born into a central Kansas Methodist family. My father, though a regular church-goer, did not make a show of his faith. My mother, who also attended church every Sunday, made daily devotions a part of her routine. She read from a Methodist publication called The Upper Room and another daily devotional guide put out by the Unity Church in Kansas City. I believe it was titled, The Daily Word. As the only child of my father and the only child of my mother at home, naturally I made the weekly trek to Trinity United Methodist in Hutchinson, KS, every Sunday with my parents.

Having a spiritual nature, I took to religion rather easily. I also sight-read well, so it wasn’t more than nine or ten years before my mother had me reading The Upper Room aloud to her as she prepared breakfast. By the time I was in the 9th grade, I was convinced that I wanted to be a preacher when I grew up. I even gave the religious opening to an assembly at my junior high school and at one of the other junior highs. I’m sure I had flashes of being the next Rev. Billy Graham or Bishop Fulton J. Sheen.
However, with the onset of puberty, my aspirations began to change. My religiosity seemed to diminish in inverse proportion to my testosterone levels. By the time I was a senior, I had stopped attending church altogether. I suspect that peer influence had something to do with that, as well.
Once away to college, the worldly influences multiplied faster than my living costs. It was at the University of Kansas that I met my first atheists. Worse than that, I had a roommate who was a Unitarian Universalist–from San Francisco, naturally. I took an intense dislike to him. He loved progressive jazz, Gerry Mulligan, in particular. I thought the music was subversive. Worse, Michael [Blasberg] would pace the room saying, doo-wap-a-doo, bee-bop-a-dupe-a-dupe-a-doo-wah, while lifting his eyebrows and scrunching up his face. Oh, yes, on top of all this, the little twerp’s hobby was making scale-model drawings of Third Reich Luftwaffe aircraft, complete with the pilot’s insignias and number of kills.
After graduation and moving to Michigan, when I felt a need to find a church, I naturally began where I was most familiar–the Methodist Church a block from where I was living. I showed up there on a Sunday morning when the Grand Dragon of the Michigan Ku Klux Klan was scheduled to speak at the Dearborn Civic Center that same afternoon. I was pleased that the minister announced to the congregation that, during the coffee hour following the service, a sign-up sheet would be available for those who wished to express their displeasure that their city was providing a forum for hate speech. When the service was over, I went over to the table for the express purpose of signing the petition. I noticed that no one else seemed interested, either in the petition or in me.
So, I continued on my own spiritual odyssey. It’s almost worthy of a Twilight Zone episode that I should then turn to searching for a Unitarian Universalist congregation in Detroit. After all, the only UU person I had ever known was also one of the most obnoxious. Perhaps it was Michael’s principled opposition to the Viet Nam War–a position I arrived at later than he–that planted a tiny seed in my soul that later resulted in my spiritual blooming.
Unitarian Universalism is not a true religion. It does not tell people what they must believe about God or anything else. It does make demands upon how its members treat each other and asks that they commit to a life-long search for the truth, wherever that search may lead. We welcome people of all religious backgrounds as just one more aspect of the boundless diversity of the human race. And we put our money and elbow grease where our mouth is.
For me, all this was like coming home spiritually. But there have been hiccups. Once a firm atheist, I have recently come to believe that there are mysteries in the world beyond my present understanding. One such mystery I shared with this very group. It had to do with Kleenex. 
Actually, I found it harder to come out as an atheist than gay. Most polls indicate that more Americans would vote for a gay person for high office than an atheist. Furthermore, I’m sure they wouldn’t want their son or daughter to marry one. You see, most atheists are Commie, pinko, liberals, who run around with gay people and child molesters–not the priests but the other child molesters.

© 1 July 2013



About
the Author

I came to the beautiful state of Colorado out of my native Kansas by way of Michigan, the state where I married and I came to the beautiful state of Colorado out of my native Kansas by way of Michigan, the state where I married and had two children while working as an engineer for the Ford Motor Company. I was married to a wonderful woman for 26 happy years and suddenly realized that life was passing me by. I figured that I should make a change, as our offspring were basically on their own and I wasn’t getting any younger. Luckily, a very attractive and personable man just happened to be crossing my path at that time, so the change-over was both fortuitous and smooth.

Soon after, I retired and we moved to Denver, my husband’s home town. He passed away after 13 blissful years together in October of 2012. I am left to find a new path to fulfillment. One possibility is through writing. Thank goodness, the SAGE Creative Writing Group was there to light the way.

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What A Performance by Gillian

It might have been soccer thugs battling riot police, or the Vietnam war or, a little child exhibiting an extreme case of the terrible two’s on the bus. In many instances, my parents, most especially my father, would shake his head and say, 

“What a performance!”
That use of the expression was quite common in the Britain of my youth, but I’m very out of touch with everyday British jargon these days. I am stuck in a 1950’s British English and on visits I tend to get quizzical looks when I talk and comments such as, goodness me, I haven’t heard that in decades! Or worse yet, oh yeah, I remember my old granny saying that.
I often find, when I look up in the dictionary words and phrases still commonly in use by me, the preface “arch. Brit,” which does, indeed, make me feel archaic. So I checked out “performance” before writing this and found that the on-line Oxford English dictionary does offer three definitions. 
1) An act of presenting a play, concert, or other form of entertainment,
2) An act of performing a dramatic role, song, or piece of music, and a third which it proclaims as informal, chiefly Brit. but does not deem to be “arch.” 
3) A display of exaggerated behavior, or a process involving a great deal of unnecessary time and effort; a fuss.
“What a performance,” was about as critical or judgmental as I ever heard from my dad. He was not a great talker anyway, but I don’t think he was awash with unspoken negative thoughts. He was generally a very positive person and, “what a performance,” was just about the limit of his negativity. When, on rare occasions, it was directed at me, I knew I was well and truly in the dog house. 
Like the time my homework blew away. 
It was a rare beautiful warm sunny Sunday morning and I was writing a paper sitting out on the back lawn. My mother called to me to help with preparing lunch, and foolishly I left my almost completed work on the chair. Busy indoors, I failed to notice that a strong wind had come up until it was too late. I rushed outside but the chair had blown over and the papers, representing about three hours of work, had disappeared. I flew into a terrible teenage temper tantrum, swearing and stomping, kicking the chair around and finally hurling it in the general direction of a very disdainful cat. Dad, coming from the vegetable garden where he’d been working, to see what on earth was happening, watched in silence until my rage finally ran itself out of energy. He looked at me with very much the same expression as the cat. “What a performance!” was all he said, and shaking his head in disbelief, returned to the onion patch.
One of our neighboring farmers was about as lazy as it’s possible to be and still maintain any kind of farm at all, even an inefficient one. When he did summon up enough energy for action, it usually took the form of wandering to the nearby pub until he could summon up enough energy to leave, which generally meant closing time. His hedges and fences were a mess and the gates too crooked to latch properly, so his cows were always wandering off in search of greener pastures. One day they identified our lawn as such, and I was dispatched on my bike to get their owner. It being a Friday evening I didn’t bother trying the farm but went straight to the pub, where I managed to pry Mr. Evans loose from his pint. He and three drunken cronies staggered to our house, only a short distance away, and began rounding up the dozen or so cows, only to succeed in startling the animals and driving them haphazardly into the vegetable garden and thence into the flower beds. The ground was very wet and soft from recent rains and the poor animals slipped and slithered around, mooing and rolling their eyes, stamping and snorting, and inevitably adding a considerable amount of steaming brown goo to the muddy earth. Eventually they all, cattle and men, shoved through the hole in the hedge the entering cows had created, and quiet descended. Mum and Dad and I gazed at the chaos that remained. I suspect many men in such circumstances would curse roundly, shouting of retribution and revenge. 
My dad took off his flat cap and scratched his bald head.
“What a performance!”
The last time I joined my parents in their own home was when I took a short leave of absence from work and went to England to get them settled in nursing homes. My mother had fallen and broken her hip, an accident from which she never really recovered, and was only able to get around with a walker. My father was physically fit as a fiddle, but completely lost to dementia. By that time, he had no idea who I was. As I left the room I heard him asking my mother, “Who is that woman?” 
They were an impossible combination. Dad would be off God knows where doing God knows what and Mum wasn’t physically able to keep tabs on him. This was our last night in our old home which we had inherited from my paternal grandparents. The old place still had no heating system except the coal and log fire and a small electric bar heater. My dad certainly was not safe with a real fire so I had asked friends to take all the logs and coal for their own use now summer was officially here, so we were down to the electric heater. 
The evening was cold and Mum turned on the bar heater which stood just in front of the original fireplace. In no time the three bars glowed red, emitting some semblance of warmth. Not enough, apparently, however, for my dad. Before we realized what he was up to, he grabbed the old metal poker which still hung in its assigned spot beside the fireplace, and jabbed it between the protective bars directly into the glowing electricity. 
There was a loud crack and a whoooosh, lots of sparks flew, followed by a billow of stinky black dense smoke. 
The cat, the last in a long line vaguely descended from the one not even narrowly missed by that flying lawn chair decades earlier, now disturbed in the act of settling himself cozily as close to the heat source as he could get, changed course and leapt onto my mother’s lap. He landed deftly in the middle of her knitting, startling her, perhaps, even more than the exploding heater. She jerked in alarm, in turn knocking her full water glass onto the cat, which let out a furious scream/growl combo and jumped onto the table, trailing wool and one attached needle.
I had set the table, complete with table cloth, ready for dinner. The cat, landing on it in full flight, dug in his claws as it started to slide, resulting in cat and cutlery crashing to the floor. The enraged cat ran from the room. 
Mum sat, speechless, in her armchair. 
Opposite her sat Dad, gazing in silent fascination at the ruined heater. 
In the sudden silence that ensued, I came so close to tears. 
I had heard such a clear resounding echo, in my head, of my younger father’s voice, saying, calmly, “What a performance!”

© 14 April 2014
  

About the Author



I was born and raised in England. After graduation from college there, I moved to the U.S. and, having discovered Colorado, never left. I have lived in the Denver-Boulder area since 1965, working for 30 years at IBM. I married, raised four stepchildren, then got divorced after finally, in my forties, accepting myself as a lesbian. I have now been with my wonderful partner Betsy for 25 years.

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Road Trip by Betsy

The most interesting thing about my road trip has been the choices that I have been presented with along the way. When the road is straight and does not branch off, die out, or deviate in any way, there are no choices for the most part and one simply follows the road until one has the opportunity to choose a different direction. On my life journey I mostly followed the main road, diligently conforming and meeting societal expectations.

A few times I have been presented with the choice to take a turn and I followed a road that goes in another direction–a road the final destination of which was unknown to me. For a person such as myself who is not a risk-taker by nature, getting off the main road can be a scary thing to do–especially when you have no map and no guide. There are no caution signs on this road. It twists and turns and there are many potholes and hazards.

On the road of life I changed direction when, you guessed it, when I came out. I dare say that was a 90 degree change in direction. And it was a choice. Oh, I know, being homosexual is not a choice, but whether or not one acts on that natural state of being, most certainly IS a choice. What one does with one’s life is a choice. Maybe within certain confines or within a certain structure, but how one behaves, acts, believes, etc. is a choice.

The road trip I took at that time was indeed an adventure. Some of the stopping off points looked beautiful and sometimes fun, but turned out to be quite disappointing. At times I felt as if I were in a foreign country, not understanding the language and certainly not the humor of the people. I actually felt quite the outsider in some of the places along the way. I persisted on that road because somehow I knew the final destination was the place I wanted to be. There were no holiday brochures, however, to tell me what this place was going to be like, but I had all my baggage with me and I had left home, so I continued.

Twenty six years ago I arrived at a spot I really liked. It was beautiful, it was comfortable, it was affordable, it was exciting, it offered all of my favorite activities. What more could a person ask. I still had all my baggage and everything I needed, I was completely satisfied, so I settled in. But that was not the end of the trip.

I do not plan to end my road trip any time soon. It’s just that now I have been traveling with my best friend, my spouse, the love of my life and we always have that beautiful, comfortable place called home to come back to.

(I still have all my baggage.)

© 24 January 2014 

About the Author

Betsy has been active in the GLBT community including PFLAG, the Denver women’s chorus, OLOC (Old Lesbians Organizing for Change). She has been retired from the Human Services field for about 15 years. Since her retirement, her major activities include tennis, camping, traveling, teaching skiing as a volunteer instructor with National Sports Center for the Disabled, and learning. Betsy came out as a lesbian after 25 years of marriage. She has a close relationship with her three children and enjoys spending time with her four grandchildren. Betsy says her greatest and most meaningful enjoyment comes from sharing her life with her partner of 25 years, Gillian Edwards.